“The Sight of Bartimaeus”

Twenty-first Sunday of Pentecost

Sunday October 25, 2009

Job 42:1-6, 10-17

Psalm 34

Hebrews 7:23-28

My name is Bartimaeus – and I am blind.

I was not always blind;

            there was a time when I could see;

a time when I could actually see how beautiful a sunset was;

a time when I could see how beautiful a tree

in the autumn actually looked;

a time when I could see that this world

is sparkling with colour and light.

But that was a long time ago.

As I got older, my ability to see somehow seemed to start slipping away;

my vision began to fail. 

At first, everything started to look rather drab, and grey.

And now?  Now I am trapped in a world of darkness.

            I am blind.

And my blindness cripples me.

            I can’t see anyone;

and I can’t see that I have anything really to offer.

I can’t make any valuable or productive contributions

to anyone or anything.

            No one cares about my opinions or my insights.

All that I can do is sit by the roadside, as the crowds shuffle by,

            and hope for the awkward mercies of those who happen to notice me.

I am a beggar; and I am blind.

I sometimes wish that my hearing had departed with my sight.

Unfortunately, I can still hear. 

I can hear the bustling crowds in Jericho;

I can hear the tradespeople, the merchants,

the shopkeepers, the children, the lovers, the old men. 

And I can hear what they say about me.

There goes the blind beggar. 

There goes that useless, lazy parasite.

There goes that good-for-nothing Bartimaeus.

One day, not so long ago, I could not listen any longer, so I left the city.

Now I sit by the roadside, just outside the city gates,

            on the road between Jericho and Jerusalem.

Leaving the city behind did not entirely quiet such voices, though.

Leaving the city made me realize

that it was not only the voices of others that I was hearing.

Now, the voice that I hear most clearly is my own,

and it seems to be saying the very same things.

You’re useless.  You’re good for nothing.  Your life is a waste.

I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.

There is quite a bit of traffic that moves past me each day, leaving Jericho.

This dusty road on which I sit is travelled by merchants and tourists,

            by priests and lawyers, even, from time to time,

by robbers and Samaritans.

Time is terribly boring.

When you are blind, after all,

there is no difference between light and darkness;

and there is nothing to illumine the darkness.

A lamp for a person’s feet and a light for their paths

make no difference to a blind man.

In a world of darkness,

time is just an excruciating cycle of pointless repetition.

But today just might be different.

You see, today, something unusual seems to be happening.

A few minutes ago,

I started to hear an unusually boisterous group

coming towards me from the city.

The shuffle of feet,

the buzz of an excited conversation;

the almost palpable sense of excitement in the noisy throng.

Finally, I turned to one of the beggars sitting beside me by the roadside.

“What’s going on?  Can you see what’s happening?”

“It looks like there’s a crowd coming out of the city,” said one.

Another beggar jumps into the conversation.

“Yeah, it’s the same bunch that was in the city yesterday,” he said,

“It’s a bunch of young guys from out by Galilee. 

I think that they’re on a road trip with some young hotshot

who seems to be able to heal people. 

I’d never heard of him before, but apparently he’s from Nazareth. 

Name’s Jesus or something.”

Jesus from Nazareth.  Hearing the name stirs something deep within me.

And now, I can hear the crowd getting closer. 

I spread out my cloak so that people will be able to throw their coins. 

Crowds can be good for beggars. 

And, who knows, maybe today will be a good day. 

I guess I’ll just have to wait – and see.

I’m about to cry out for the crowd’s charity –

but suddenly, I decide to try something else entirely. 

After all, if this young teacher actually has the power to heal…

“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

My voice is strong –

that comes with years of calling out for spare change

on the noisy city streets. 

Now, it rings through the crowd.

But even as it does, I am surprised at just how desperate it sounds. 

And I am not the only one who hears its desperation.

The crowd notices.  And the insults start up, as they always have.

Shut up, beggar.  Keep it down, blind man.

Get a job.  Beg somewhere else.

We have places to go. 

Jesus is too busy.  We’re on our way to Jerusalem. 

Just keep quiet and let us pass.

I’ve heard the taunts before.  I’m quite used to the ridicule.

Most days, anything that they say

is far tamer than the things that I find myself telling myself. 

Most days, I would back down.

But not today.

Today, for some reason, I cannot seem to give in, to keep quiet.

Perhaps it is desperation;

perhaps I am just sick and tired of the way that my life is going.

Perhaps it is an anger that can no longer be contained,

            a frustration that I can no longer control.

Why can’t they understand just how desperate I am?

I cannot see.

My vision is gone.

I hate this blindness.

I am fed up with living in a world of shadows,

of darkness, of crushing monotony;

                        but there is nothing that I can do to overcome it.

So if there is any chance that this strange young teacher can help me,

if there is any hope that he can take away my blindness,

then I am not going to be silenced any longer.

I am not going to let him pass me by.

I do not want to be blind any more.

“Son of David, have mercy on me!”

I expect more insults, but none come.

An eerie silence seems to have descended over the crowd.

I hear someone whisper.

“Why is he stopping?”  And then another. “What’s he looking for?”

“Look – he’s turning towards that beggar!”

How I wish that I could see what is going on.

But somehow, I get the feeling that he is looking at me.

And then I hear his voice.

And his voice itself seems to reach into the darkness and grip me.

“Call him here.”

Is that his voice?

Who is he talking to?

Is he actually interested in me?

How I wish that I could see what is going on.

My confusion must be visible on my face,

because suddenly I hear another voice whispering to me,

“Take heart; get up; he is calling you.”

And so, I jump to my feet.

I hear the coins on my cloak go rolling away.

But I don’t care. 

He has called me, and suddenly nothing else seems to matter.

I feel an arm guiding me towards him.

            Whose arm it is, I don’t know.

But if that arm was not there, guiding me toward the teacher,

            I would not know the way through the crowd;

and I would not now be standing in his presence.

And then, I hear his voice again.
“What do you want me to do for you?”

Somehow, even in its gentleness,

it is the most powerful voice that I have ever heard.

He speaks as one with authority, as if he actually knows what he is asking --  

            and as if he could actually do something for me.

So what do I want?

What do I want?

I want a safe place to sleep.

I want money to buy food.

I want my desperation, my frustration, my anxiety,

my fear, my boredom to be taken away.

I want a friend.

I want to be loved.

I want to know that my life means something.

I want to feel that I am something more than an outcast

sitting on the sidelines while the world rushes by.

I want all of the darkness, all of the confusion,

all of the blindness to be lifted from me.

I want my vision back.

What do I want?

“My teacher, let me see again.”

The crowd is quiet.

The noise of their taunts has given way to silence.

My words seem to hang on the air

like a heavy morning fog before the rising sun clears the mists away.

I hear someone draw in their breath,

amazed and perhaps a bit uncomfortable at my audacity.

Who am I to ask for sight? 

Do I actually think that the young teacher can restore my vision?

And I share their surprise at the boldness of my request.

But I feel as if he is not surprised at all.

Rather, in that moment, in that split second

which seems to last for an eternity,

I feel his eyes upon me.

I feel him looking into the very depths of my soul.

I can tell that he senses my desperation, my fear, my apprehension.

But I can also tell that he knows           

that I believe that if anyone can do something for me,

He can.

And then I hear him speak.

“Go; your faith has made you well.”

And a light cuts through that darkness

that has surrounded me and trapped me for so long.

I see shadows, and then shapes, and then colours;

and then, I realize that my eyes are looking into someone’s eyes.

I realize that I am staring into the eyes of Jesus of Nazareth,

the Son of David,

the Son of God.

His eyes are gentle,

but in them, I catch sight, however fleeting, of a power so immense

that it could only exist in the heart of God.

And those eyes, and that power,

are looking into me, staring into me, searching me,

and filling me with a peace unlike anything that I have ever felt before.

I can see.

The light has shone into my darkness, and my darkness has been overcome.

I look at my own hands, and see that they are good.

I look at my own body, and see that it is beautiful.

I look at the crowds around me, who had so recently ridiculed me,

but I feel no anger towards them.

And all that I can see is the disappointment that each one of them experiences;

I can see that their hearts are broken;

That their lives are filled with suffering;

That they all want their vision restored as well.

I have known their pain.

I have known the insecurities.
I have known their sense of humiliation.

I have known what it means to cry out

even when those who were hurting me

did not know what they were doing.

And now, all that I want is for them to know that their pain can be healed;

that their frustrations can be eased,

their fears can be overcome,

their anxieties can be relieved.

And I know this,

because I used to be a blind beggar;

and now –

now I can see.

He has told me to go, but for now,

I am going to just stay close to him for a little while,

There will be a time to go, but for now, I need to learn more.

I’m sure that there’s lots of time;

after all, this young teacher has a bright future.

After all, with the adoring, triumphant, excited crowd that is surrounding him,

what could possibly happen to him?

No one could hurt him – especially not in the next little while.

After all, he’s just going up to Jerusalem for the Passover.